


Weeks Worth of Patience

by Mnojick



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnojick/pseuds/Mnojick





	Weeks Worth of Patience

The fight was two weeks ago. John refused to cave and let that little brat win, though, it hasn't stopped him from pacing his house back and forth like a lion in a cage.

Mary, his very intuitive wife, seems to know exactly what's up with her beloved husband. She carefully sets down her book. "Surely, there's a case Sherlock needs your help on. Maybe you should pop over and check on him?" 

"Yeah. He grunts. Yeah I should." In a flash, he grabs his black jacket and heads out the door. Mary can only smirk when she hears his car peeling away down the road.

***

It's late but the light is still on inside in Sherlock's apartment. Good sign.

Right before he gets out of his car, however, a man in his mid-forties, around John's age, with greying short hair comes out of the door and hails a taxi. And John knows. He just _knows. _

A low growl bubbles up from deep in his chest as he's hit by a wave of snarling anger.

_Who the fuck is that? _

John's never had to deal with jealousy, not before, not with girlfriends or Mary. But the very thought of someone else even _touching _Sherlock, who belongs to _him_ makes John want to stride out and walk right up to the other soldier and rip out his throat.  
  
_Sherlock is his!_

Except... Except Sherlock isn't. Luckily John catches himself. He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself, reminding himself he has to be rational about this or he will lose Sherlock for good. 

He has no standing. Jealous while being married, is not good. But he can't help it. Sherlock has never, ever shown interest in anyone else but John. He constantly calls John his 'whole world'.

The soldier looks down at his fist and realizes he's punched the steering wheel. John realizes their last breakup was indeed rough.

Jealous when Sherlock begged him to leave Mary and marry him and John refused. He can't help it.

  
Sherlock wanted John to get a divorce. John refused. He had a child with Mary. And yet, Mary clearly didn't care if John fucked Sherlock, she practically encouraged it.

He slams the door open and Sherlock, who is coming out of his bedroom in only a sheet, soft porcelain skin, glowing in the dim light, at at least the grace to flush.

"John-what are you?"

"I need to know" John growls. His voice is low and foreceful, and Sherlock shivers at the severity. if you still want to marry me. I want you to wear a ring and let all of London know you're claimed. By me."

that absolutely pert ass that tempts him so comprehensively relentlessly 

Ardent cry 

Making delicious sounds of comprehensive distress.

Sherlock knew _exactly_ what they talked about. He shamelessly read John’s texts and reviewed his blog posts hourly. So far, they had covered nearly every single case John had ever posted. Her texted cooing and praises made him physically ill with their saccharine inanity. Her name was Lisa, pronounced _Lie-saw_. It drove Sherlock mad with irritation that this fact was in his mind palace and that he couldn’t seem to expunge it. John was always going on about things Lisa said, laughing as he repeated her admirations, her questions, her every bleeding exclamation. She had invaded their entire life, it seemed, and it was making Sherlock crazy. “John, you spend more time chatting with her than you do speaking to me. What’s coming next, meeting for coffee, or going to the cinema, or luncheons?”

Sherlock was aghast when John flushed a second time, his entire body tensing in a head to toe cringe that he tried to pretend wasn’t happening, “Nothing wrong with any of those things. Friends do that stuff all the time.” He sounded as if he didn’t even believe himself.

“You’ve already done it. You’ve gone on dates with her.” Sherlock’s voice was hollow because his heart was hollow. He hadn’t even _noticed_ that John was stepping out on him._ He wasn’t enough for John. John needed to seek extra from someone else because Sherlock, apparently, was not capable of keeping him satisfied._ “I see.”

“Sherlock, it’s not like that.” Perhaps, but the mixture of guilt and stubbornness on John’s face was loud and clear, “It’s nothing. There’s nothing like that happening.”

“Nothing except _secret_ meetings, _constant_ texting, and who knows _what_ else, certainly not _me_. I apparently am the _ignoramus_ who was foolish enough to believe that the person I was sleeping with was interested in being exclusive. Silly of me, I see that now. Completely irrational of me, in fact.” He knew he was being dramatic, but he didn’t care. _When was drama more warranted than at this very instant? _Sherlock stood and glared down at John who wasn’t making any effort to meet his angry gaze, “I suppose it’s my fault somehow? I caused this to happen _and it’s what I deserve_, is that it, John?”

John swallowed hard but then took a moment to text something, pressing send before answering. It broke Sherlock’s heart into even smaller pieces because even an argument about their relationship wasn’t important enough for John to stop texting Lisa. “You don’t own me, Sherlock. I can do what I like with my time, and be with other people if I want.”

Sherlock felt his heart shatter completely into dust, and all the fight left him. “Yes, you can, John. Yes. Do whatever you like with your time, _be_ with whomever you choose. It’s clear that what I might prefer is of no significance.” A gaping hole had appeared in front of Sherlock’s entire existence and he could feel the blackness of it drawing him in. _John was cheating on him. John had never planned on being faithful to him. John wanted to see other people._

John was always a mystery because he was smiling fondly up at Sherlock, not at all upset or uncertain looking, not anymore, “They love you, but not as much as I do. So? Will you marry me, Sherlock, and let me wear your ring so that anyone who sees me knows that I’m good and taken?”

That sank in. The primal possessive part of Sherlock’s mind suddenly took over, and he nearly growled out his assent, “Yes. Yes, I will.” _John was HIS. Everyone would know it._ The dark creature inside his mind was gloating and rubbing its incorporeal hands together gleefully. _John was his._ Sherlock came back to himself the moment John’s mouth covered his. _They were kissing._ After all these weeks of emotional upheaval, Sherlock felt as if celestial beings were singing all around him. His body felt super-charged with positive energy as he feasted on John’s presence once again. _This was right. The world was right once again. Everything was possible, now._ “I love you, John.” _The words weren’t so very hard to say, after all._

“I know you do, my darling man. Everything you did, everything you endured, all of it was because you loved me. I never doubted that for a moment. I am so sorry that I made it so that you doubted yourself, though. I’ll always regret that. I’m so so sorry, Sherlock.” John stepped forward, pressing their bodies together, “This was a case of both of us being stubborn, but mostly me also being stubborn _and_ stupid. I was absolutely focused on keeping the book a secret. I don’t know why I hung onto that goal so hard, but I guess it was because you’re the person I love most in the world and you see everything...I wanted so much to be able to hide from you just so I could give you this thing I spent so long making. I’ve been re-writing our cases for ages now,” he paused, “I started back when I thought you were dead. I read and re-read our notes so many times, just reliving the days where I was happy and content with life, and just so in love with you. I didn’t think I would feel that way again about anyone, and I haven’t.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, either. The doubt had been one of the crueller aspects of their separation. John _was_ faithful to him and had _remained_ faithful even though Sherlock had left him under a cloud of suspicion and anger. There was one point he felt the need to mention, “You were married once already. It didn’t go well.”

John crumpled, “Yes. Yes, I got married even though it was wrong of me to do so, I can see that now. Back then, though, Mary...god how she manipulated everything...the things she said, her timing was just...no, I can’t put all of it on her. I made my choices, even though the reasons for them were weak. I did it to myself because...” John kept trailing off as he floundered for words to explain, “There were so many factors and I was too stupid, too blind, and too stubborn to even try to see them. I blinded myself, trying to make a martyr of myself because of how hurt I’d been while I thought you were dead. I wanted you to hurt too, and I never allowed myself to think about everything you had already suffered. I know what kind of man I am now, and it’s not a good one. I’m a terrible person, you should never trust me, and you should definitely never marry me, but I want you to, desperately. Give me once more chance, I’m begging you, give me the chance to try and make you happy. Please, just let me try.”

Sherlock nodded and felt shaky. John held his hand and slowly drew him into the hallway, allowing Sherlock to direct him to his temporary bedroom. John cast a quick look around at the mess he found there, and Sherlock was surprised to find that his soldier looked teary and sentimental, “You really know how to leave an impression on a place. I’ve actually missed this.”

“My laundry on the floor?”

John laughed brokenly, “Yeah, actually.” He smiled up at Sherlock, “You’re a total mess but you’re _my_ mess, and I’ve been completely undone without you.” John helped Sherlock out of his suit jacket and sat him on the edge of his bed. The doctor then puttered around the room, scooping laundry into its basket, and once he’d located clean pyjamas, John helped Sherlock change into them and then tucked the detective under his big quilt as if he were an invalid, “Close your eyes and rest for a few minutes while I make us some tea.”

Sherlock wasn’t remotely sleepy but obeyed, shutting his eyes and listening to John walk through Mycroft’s rooms. He listened to the distant noise of water being poured, the snap of the electric kettle being activated, and drifted as he processed everything that had changed. To his surprise, he dozed off and woke sometime later, John lying next to him, and a fragrant pot of now cool tea on the night table, “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

John smiled and cuddled close, holding Sherlock tightly with one arm. It felt heavenly and Sherlock melted into the embrace, boneless and unresisting. “You’re exhausted, love. It’s been a crap few weeks for both of us.”

Sherlock stared up at John and the words fell out of his mouth without prompting, “I want to go home.”

John smiled down at him, his ever-expressive face dancing between delight and a failed attempt at appearing calm, “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sat up and allowed John to help him out of bed, “Now.”

John was always a mystery because he was smiling fondly up at Sherlock, not at all upset or uncertain looking, not anymore, “They love you, but not as much as I do. So? Will you marry me, Sherlock, and let me wear your ring so that anyone who sees me knows that I’m good and taken?”

That sank in. The primal possessive part of Sherlock’s mind suddenly took over, and he nearly growled out his assent, “Yes. Yes, I will.” _John was HIS. Everyone would know it._ The dark creature inside his mind was gloating and rubbing its incorporeal hands together gleefully. _John was his._ Sherlock came back to himself the moment John’s mouth covered his. _They were kissing._ After all these weeks of emotional upheaval, Sherlock felt as if celestial beings were singing all around him. His body felt super-charged with positive energy as he feasted on John’s presence once again. _This was right. The world was right once again. Everything was possible, now._ “I love you, John.” _The words weren’t so very hard to say, after all._

“I know you do, my darling man. Everything you did, everything you endured, all of it was because you loved me. I never doubted that for a moment. I am so sorry that I made it so that you doubted yourself, though. I’ll always regret that. I’m so so sorry, Sherlock.” John stepped forward, pressing their bodies together, “This was a case of both of us being stubborn, but mostly me also being stubborn _and_ stupid. I was absolutely focused on keeping the book a secret. I don’t know why I hung onto that goal so hard, but I guess it was because you’re the person I love most in the world and you see everything...I wanted so much to be able to hide from you just so I could give you this thing I spent so long making. I’ve been re-writing our cases for ages now,” he paused, “I started back when I thought you were dead. I read and re-read our notes so many times, just reliving the days where I was happy and content with life, and just so in love with you. I didn’t think I would feel that way again about anyone, and I haven’t.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, either. The doubt had been one of the crueller aspects of their separation. John _was_ faithful to him and had _remained_ faithful even though Sherlock had left him under a cloud of suspicion and anger. There was one point he felt the need to mention, “You were married once already. It didn’t go well.”

John crumpled, “Yes. Yes, I got married even though it was wrong of me to do so, I can see that now. Back then, though, Mary...god how she manipulated everything...the things she said, her timing was just...no, I can’t put all of it on her. I made my choices, even though the reasons for them were weak. I did it to myself because...” John kept trailing off as he floundered for words to explain, “There were so many factors and I was too stupid, too blind, and too stubborn to even try to see them. I blinded myself, trying to make a martyr of myself because of how hurt I’d been while I thought you were dead. I wanted you to hurt too, and I never allowed myself to think about everything you had already suffered. I know what kind of man I am now, and it’s not a good one. I’m a terrible person, you should never trust me, and you should definitely never marry me, but I want you to, desperately. Give me once more chance, I’m begging you, give me the chance to try and make you happy. Please, just let me try.”

Sherlock nodded and felt shaky. John held his hand and slowly drew him into the hallway, allowing Sherlock to direct him to his temporary bedroom. John cast a quick look around at the mess he found there, and Sherlock was surprised to find that his soldier looked teary and sentimental, “You really know how to leave an impression on a place. I’ve actually missed this.”

“My laundry on the floor?”

John laughed brokenly, “Yeah, actually.” He smiled up at Sherlock, “You’re a total mess but you’re _my_ mess, and I’ve been completely undone without you.” John helped Sherlock out of his suit jacket and sat him on the edge of his bed. The doctor then puttered around the room, scooping laundry into its basket, and once he’d located clean pyjamas, John helped Sherlock change into them and then tucked the detective under his big quilt as if he were an invalid, “Close your eyes and rest for a few minutes while I make us some tea.”

Sherlock wasn’t remotely sleepy but obeyed, shutting his eyes and listening to John walk through Mycroft’s rooms. He listened to the distant noise of water being poured, the snap of the electric kettle being activated, and drifted as he processed everything that had changed. To his surprise, he dozed off and woke sometime later, John lying next to him, and a fragrant pot of now cool tea on the night table, “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

John smiled and cuddled close, holding Sherlock tightly with one arm. It felt heavenly and Sherlock melted into the embrace, boneless and unresisting. “You’re exhausted, love. It’s been a crap few weeks for both of us.”

Sherlock stared up at John and the words fell out of his mouth without prompting, “I want to go home.”

John smiled down at him, his ever-expressive face dancing between delight and a failed attempt at appearing calm, “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sat up and allowed John to help him out of bed, “Now.”

“Don’t worry about that,” He laughs, likely clocking my slightly raised eyebrows. “To be expected. Obviously,” I wasn’t worried, actually. Intrigued, I think, is the word. I’m no stranger to arousal, but it hasn’t been what I’d call a frequent occurrence in my life. More frequent in the years I’ve known John, however. And the sight of him like this is having quite an effect. I slowly step out of my pants, eyes locked on his. He breaks our gaze to scan my body. I watch as he registers my own erection, a small smile appearing on his face. “Oh,” He says.

We step into the steaming spray together, hands immediately roaming over heated skin. His fingers cup my neck, glide up through my wet curls. I run my palms down his arms, snake them around to his lower back. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring—fuelled by unprecedented lust—I slide them down, down and roughly squeeze his arse, pulling him abruptly toward me. When our erections brush, a fog of arousal consumes me in a way that I wouldn’t have guessed possible. John moans, whispers a string of profanities under his breath. I’m not sure where to go from here. I want to touch him, I think. Are we going to do this, then? I suppose that’s up to me. My heart is racing, bursting, boiling over with emotion and unfamiliar desire. Emboldened by the memory of his words from last week _ (you don’t have to hesitate, with me) _ I take a slight step back, reach down and wrap my fingers around his shaft. He gasps at the contact, looks up at me with wide eyes as I begin to firmly stroke.

“Oh my _ God,” _ John breathes, hands coming up to grab at my shoulders for stability. His head drops down, watching my hand on him, pulling him swiftly to a state of bliss. He leans forward, panting heavily against my chest—I can feel that he’s already close to orgasm as my fingers glide rapidly up and down. Seeing him like this is setting my gut on fire, cock throbbing and skin buzzing—something new and exciting blossoming behind my ribcage. When he ejaculates, it’s with a strangled shout, erupting over my fingers and collapsing against my chest. I wrap my arms around his body, kiss the top of his head.

After a long moment, he pulls back, looks up at me. “Can I?” He asks. Oh, God. I nod slowly, feeling suddenly hesitant at the thought of another human being’s hands on me like this. But it’s John, and I trust him. I want this for us—I really do. He grabs a bottle of shampoo off the shelf, applies some to his palm, then reaches down. His grip is light, eyes on my face—watching for signs of protest. Always such concern for my wellbeing. I’d been holding my breath and when he begins a slow, languid stroke, I let it all out in a dramatic sigh. I feel completely raw, exposed to his touch—like each of my nerves has been flicked on, lit up. Heart thundering in my chest, blood swimming with lust and an overwhelming affection, pleasure coiling dangerously within me. Sounds escape my mouth that I hadn’t known I was capable of—my arms have found their way around John’s neck, cheek pressed against his as I pant and moan into his ear. I shout when I come, voice echoing through the tiled walls that surround us. John pulls our bodies flush together, holds on to me as I come down from this new kind of high—his arms keeping me anchored while my head’s in the sky.

The ARP wardens began to rouse those who had been able to sleep at around five. As soon as Sherlock noticed, he extracted his hand from John’s and squeezed John’s leg gently. ‘John,’ he murmured. ‘Time to go.’

Lifting his head from Sherlock’s shoulder, John sat up and blinked, clearing the haze of a fitful sleep that had fallen around him. ‘It’d be daft of me to imagine you managed to get your head down, wouldn’t it?’ he asked with a small, knowing smile.

‘Downright foolish,’ Sherlock said, standing and pulling his coat on, then his scarf, hat, and finally his gloves. John stretched his back out and yawned.

‘Do come along, John,’ Sherlock said, an urgent crack in his voice as he tried to tug John to his feet. Other people were beginning to stir and preparing to leave around them.

‘It’s alright,’ John said quietly, fixing Sherlock with an even stare as he rose to his feet, putting his trench coat and hat on. ‘You’re alright,’ he whispered, bending to pick up the case they’d brought with them, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock’s.

With the briefest touch to Sherlock’s forearm, John began to lead the way towards the stairs, weaving in between the people still lying or sitting on the floor. The baby from the night before had finally stopped crying at about three, and was just starting to fuss again at being woken. John and Sherlock were among the first to leave the station, running up the steps to face the crisp Autumn dawn. Smoke hung in the air around them, the smell acrid. Small piles of rubble littered Baker Street, though further down, in the opposite direction to 221.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, standing still and breathing in the morning chill.

‘Five past five,’ John murmured, checking his watch. Sherlock’s gloved hand shot out and grabbed John’s upturned wrist.

‘Come on,’ Sherlock said, and in a sudden burst of movement they were running down Baker Street, back to 221, back to their flat. Dull brown leaves that had fallen from the trees in the past couple of hours rustled and snapped under their feet as they ran, the tall houses on either side of the road looming over them; groaning, empty giants.

They reached their front door after a five-minute dash, short of breath. Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his tweed suit jacket and pulled out his set of keys. ‘There’s no time,’ he muttered as he shoved the key in the lock, twisting it with far more force than was necessary. ‘There’s never enough time.’ He kicked the door open and went inside, pulling John in after him.

They paused, staring at one another, the door still open.

The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs struck quarter past the hour.

‘_John_,’ Sherlock breathed, twisting his fingers into John’s hair, knocking his hat off, pushing him back against the door so that it slammed shut. Sherlock crushed his body against John’s and stared at him, nose-to-nose. John dropped the case and brought his own hands up to Sherlock’s strange face and stared back, looking and looking and looking.

‘I--’ Sherlock began, but John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s with a vicious exhalation through his nose and cut Sherlock short. The tips of John’s fingers and thumbs dug into Sherlock’s skin and Sherlock’s hands tightened in John’s hair.

‘Upstairs,’ John mumbled into Sherlock’s mouth, rubbing their noses together, kissing him again. ‘Upstairs, there’s time, we’ve time.’

Sherlock nodded and hurried up the stairs, taking his coat and gloves and scarf and hat off as he went. John stooped to pick up his hat and the case and went after Sherlock, closing the door to their flat behind him once he was inside. He heard Sherlock’s footsteps on the second set of stairs that led to the room that had been John’s originally but was now theirs, saw Sherlock’s coat spread on the floor where he’d dropped it. John got out of his own coat, then his jacket, his jumper and his tie and followed the trail of clothes that Sherlock had left in his wake.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off. John sat down next to him, their thighs brushing as John removed his own shoes and socks. They were both silent. Still in his shirt and trousers, Sherlock leant forwards, resting his elbows on his legs, his head drooping, his hands hanging down between his knees.

4 weeks ago

After topping. 

Mans we can continue to do it this way. There are so many things I’d like to try with you Sherlock but they don’t have to happen, not for a while. 

Sherlock stares intently at Johns cock, wraps his palm and the fingers around the mushroom head, like a door knob. It’s a strange surprisingly possessive motion and the sensation of smooth soft flesh around his makes John groan loudly. 

I told you you I trust you. 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter at the sound 

“Good. Because—” John lowers his head and he slowly reaches into his coat pocket. His breathing is quick, his hands are trembling, and Sherlock thinks, with this utter candidness, he has never been more beautiful. “I’ve never been very good at this,” John utters, voice wrecked and nervous. “I wish I could give you a proper… well, you know.”

“It’s okay, John. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I know you’ve got a new life. I’m grateful that you still want me in it at all.” John stares. His brow creases. Head angled down, he glares up at me through pale lashes.

“Well Sherlock, I can sincerely say that I am thrilled to have finally met you,” I narrow my eyes a bit, not trusting such enthusiasm being thrown in my direction. She laughs. “You two look good together. John, you’re glowing.”

John’s cheeks turn a shade pinker, but he just rolls his eyes. “Let’s do this more often, Harry. Really. It’s been nice.” 

Sherlock has had always been relatively easy to carry but now he’s frightfully light.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asks softly not able to resist the temptation of brushing Johns light bond hair away from his eyes.

“You kept youw pwomise.” John says smiling brightly up at him even though it seemed tired it was happy nonetheless.

“Of course I did.” Sherlock says amiably smiling at him just glad that he was okay. “I always keep my promises and you don’t forget that, alright?”

“I won’t.” John grins his eyes falling closed slowly before opening one eye up at him. “I can’t move.” He says quietly just realizing it, confused andlooking down at his body both eyes open now.

“Don’t worry, it’ll go away.” Sherlock says soothingly placing a hand on his arm and watching John’s face carefully as he seems to be slowly panicking.

“Scawy.” John says biting his lip as tears well up in his eyes. “I don’t wike it Shewock.” He says fearfully.

“It’s okay, it’s alright.” Sherlock says moving closer to him rubbing John’s arm lightly not entirely sure how to comfort him without John latching onto him and doing what he needed himself. He maneuvered John onto his lap trying not move him too much in case it would hurt him but John didn’t protest simply leaning against him as much as he could in this state.

“Everything’s okay now.” Sherlock says softly rubbing John’s back gently holding him close offering what comfort that he could. He rests his head lightly atop Johns own, feeling him slowly relax in his arms.

Sherlock shifts slowly to sit back against the headboard as he feels John drift to sleep. He sighs quietly to himself brushing a strand of John’s hair gently behind his ear. He seemed impossibly more innocent and small while sleeping it was cute yes but also made his chest ache terribly.

. We’ve found our balance once more. And now that I’ve grown comfortable with this new tactile facet of our relationship, I want more.

“John—are you—do you—“

_“Yes,” _ He interrupts. “Whatever it is, Sherlock, the answer is yes,” Really? It’s that simple? I look at him for a long moment and then hesitantly bring my arms up, slip my fingers under the hem of his burgundy plaid shirt, meeting the warm skin of his waist. I pause. “Go on, then,” He says, a small smile still firmly in place. So I do. I slide my palms up his sides, across his ribcage, back down his taut abdomen. _Finally, _I think. Barriers breached. He tentatively begins to tug my shirt from where it’s tucked into my trousers. “All right?” He asks, searching my face for permission. I nod. Once he’s pulled my shirt from its confines, he begins to slowly unfasten buttons, watching me for signs of protest. I have none. The fabric hanging loosely from my shoulders now, his eyes roam over this new expanse of flesh he suddenly has access to. Meeting my eyes again, he carefully runs his palms across my pectorals, down my sides. I shiver violently, my skin buzzing beneath his fingertips. He registers this and snakes his arms around my waist, pulls our bodies close. I let my forehead drop to his shoulder, slide my hands up his back, feeling for the scar that he’s hidden from me for all these years. I map it with the pads of my fingers, think of how we’d never have found each other at all if he hadn’t been given this scar. A series of random events led him to the lab that day. Both of us existing in a grey, miserable haze until we unexpectedly found one another and learned that life could have colour. 

An overwhelming wave of emotion washing through me, I turn my head on a whim, press my lips to his neck. We haven’t done this yet, either—kissed—it never held any appeal for me until recently. Now I’m regularly compelled to lie my lips on various regions of his flesh. But I haven’t. Until now. I let my tongue dance lightly across his skin, tasting salt, smelling his own musky scent where my nose rests under his jaw. He sighs, tightens his grip on my body.

We remain this way for long minutes, wrapped up in each other, breathing together—my hand trailing up and down his spine. John is the first to pull back, arms still circling my waist, blue eyes staring up at me. They reflect what I’m feeling—everything that I don’t have the words to describe. I watch as he brings his hands up to cup my jaw, thumbs brushing gently across cheekbones. He leans forward and places a soft kiss on my pulse point—sending a heavy drop of heat skittering down my spine—letting his lips linger for a beat.

“Sherlock,” He says quietly, against my skin. “You don’t have to hesitate, with me. You don’t even have to ask,” He pulls back again, looks up at me. “If there’s something you want, you can have it. I trust you,” He slides his hands up, brushing curls from my forehead. “I’m open to anything,” He reiterates. He has told me this before, but he had seemed content to carry on as we were—“I’m following your lead, you know. Whatever you decide, I’m already so happy I hardly know what to do with myself,” He smiles up at me.

“I -I think. yes. All right,” he breathes, panting wetly as he's propped up on his skinny forearms, long curls hanging between them. “Okay, I think I'm ready." John runs his palms up and down over his back and his flank, watching the delicious shivers coarse under the thin creamy white skin. The plump globes perked up for John's touch is beyond nirvana. John curls his fingers around too-small hips and takes a deep breath to stabilize himself.   
  
They've been preparing for this for weeks, almost a full month now. The bedside table is full of lube and obscene dildos and buttplugs, and yet.... Yet, John still can't help but being wary.

He shakes his head, "No, not quite, Sherlock." He pushes four thick fingers back inside Sherlock's pink little hole once more, scissoring and flattening them out to stretch out the little muscle as much as possible. This despite his own cock aching, being harder than a bloody iron rod from watching Sherlock squirm and moan and mewl around his fingers all afternoon.   
  
  
  


“John—”

“Don’t you dare ask me if I’m sure. I want this,” He pushes his arse back into me, a clear demonstration that he indeed does want it. This motion strokes my erection where it stands against my stomach, and I let slip a low moan. He’s surprised me, yet again. John hasn’t been quite as keen on prostate stimulation as I have—it’s generally a bit overwhelming for him. Not entirely sure why we’re doing this at all, but he’s insisted that he wants it. I look up to see that he’s turned back to glare at me. I must have hesitated a moment too long. “Sherlock,” He sighs. _ “Fuck me.” _

_ God, _ John. A flare of heat sparks wildly in my gut. I’m already hard as a bloody rod from watching him squirm and moan around my fingers. I didn’t think he’d actually want to go through with this, but here we are. And if I’m being honest—I want this, too. I really, really do. I lean forward and press my lips to his spine, taste the salty sweat of him. Line us up—squeezing his hips where my hands rest. Can hardly believe this is happening. I move my pelvis forward, nudge the head of my cock against him, pausing as he inhales deeply. Then I push, gradually, into his body.

John lets out a moan that turns quickly into a stunned shout as my shaft settles deep within him. My eyes go wide before I clamp them shut—completely consumed by the feel of him. Surrounding me. Despite our preparations, he’s _ tight _—and no amount of probing with fingers could have prepared me for the way that this feels—for this particular blend of physical sensation and staggering emotion. I grab for his arms and pull him back against me, into my lap where we kneel on our bed. He drops his head back against my shoulder, panting, and kisses my jaw. I wrap my arms around his waist and turn my head to meet his lips. Softly, lightly.

“Okay,” He pants against my mouth, after a long moment. I tighten my grip around him—pinning his arms to his sides—lean us forward slightly and pull back my hips. When I roll them forward, pushing slowly back in, we both cry out, a bit dazed by the intensity of this. I press my mouth to the top of his spine, then pull back again, beginning a steady rhythm of long, sharp thrusts.

John’s head drops forward and he’s panting heavily, shouting with every snap of my hips. I’m already tipping over the edge, losing myself and quickening my pace as my entire body trembles, shakes. I drive up into him, arms still clutching him against me, holding us both upright. I slide a hand down to grip his erection, firmly stroke his shaft in time with my increasingly frenzied thrusts.

John cries out when he comes, shouting my name, and we fall forward into the soft linen below. I’m completely gone—drilling furiously into his body—over and over as I sob and moan against his neck. He calls out again and again as I hump him forcefully, clinging to him tightly as I drown in a sea of lust and lechery. I feel the pleasure building dangerously with each wild thrust—and when my body goes still, my cries echo through our room as I violently erupt deep inside him. My hips slam upward once, twice, again, again—emptying me out, filling him up. I melt into him completely, covering his body where he lies beneath me—and we slowly sink into a deadened daze.

✹

I startle myself back to consciousness with a sudden burst of panic. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings—still slumped atop John, arms pinned beneath him, my now soft cock has slipped out of his body. Oh, _ God— _I completely lost control. What if I hurt him? A surge of dread rises up into my gut. I’d never let myself go so completely before. I open my eyes. John is dozing, breathing steadily below me. I slide off of him to lie at his side—propped up on one arm, I watch him carefully. Run my palm down his spine, then back up, up, brushing through his hair with my fingers. His eyelids flicker open.

“Hello,” He breathes softly, peering up at me with sleepy blue eyes.

“All right?” I ask, hesitantly. He studies my face for a moment, then grins.

“I’d say so, yes,” He rolls toward me, tugs at my arm until we’re lying face to face. Slides his hand around my waist to rest on my back.

“I didn’t—it wasn’t—?”

_ “No,” _ He pulls me closer. Kisses me quick. “It was _ good, _ Sherlock. Bloody brilliant, actually. I’d never seen you like that—never quite so—uninhibited,” I never have been. It’s not that I ever really hold back with him, but this was something else entirely. I’m not sure what to say, so I bring our mouths together again. His kisses are soft, reassuring. He always knows when I need peace of mind.

Eventually I break away to retrieve a flannel and clean us up. John rolls over and I slide up behind him, our bodies slotting together like two halves of a whole. The clock on the bedside table tells us that it’s just after midnight. We have much to do in the morning, so we settle in to sleep. I press my lips to the back of his neck—a now familiar form of goodnight.

John weaves our fingers together where they lie on his stomach. I smile against his skin as we fall contentedly into sleep.

✹

My eyes fly open abruptly as John climbs on top of me—his favourite way to wake me when he’s excited about something—or when he wants to get laid. I squint up at him, the morning light accosting my eyes. He’s beaming down at me, straddling my hips, hands firmly planted on my chest.

“Wake _ up _,” He says determinedly. I feign annoyance at his enthusiasm—groan dramatically and close my eyes. He shifts his hips—a strategic move—stirring my wearied cock back to life. I try to ignore him, ordering my mind back into the depths of sleep, but I’m distracted by his persistent grind. When I crack an eye open to glare up at him, he grins. Rolls his hips forward, back. Playing dirty. Leans down, down, to whisper seductively in my ear, “Happy Christmas.”

I roll out from under him and sprint to the loo, intending to lock him out and take first shower. He catches me before I’ve even got the door shut, hands on my waist as he backs me up against the tiled wall. We kiss fiercely, stark naked, fingers roaming across flesh. Step under the hot spray and come together with practiced hands. By the time we step out, there’s a genuine grin plastered across my face—Happy Christmas, indeed. 

I stand at the mirror, fastening the final button on the deep green shirt my parents had gifted me upon my return. John is piling our destroyed bed linens into a laundry basket, tugging a clean set out of a dresser drawer. As he spreads the fitted sheet out over the mattress, I wrap my arms around him, running my palms down the front of his burgundy Christmas jumper and pressing my lips to his temple. “I love you,” I say. Because I do. He drops the sheet and turns in my arms—leaning into the embrace, cheek resting against my chest. We’ve had many quiet moments like this in the past four weeks—checking in, reassuring, reminding each other that we’re all right. I need these moments. I treasure them.

Shower sex scene from StopThat

“Don’t worry about that,” He laughs, likely clocking my slightly raised eyebrows. “To be expected. Obviously,” I wasn’t worried, actually. Intrigued, I think, is the word. I’m no stranger to arousal, but it hasn’t been what I’d call a frequent occurrence in my life. More frequent in the years I’ve known John, however. And the sight of him like this is having quite an effect. I slowly step out of my pants, eyes locked on his. He breaks our gaze to scan my body. I watch as he registers my own erection, a small smile appearing on his face. “Oh,” He says.

We step into the steaming spray together, hands immediately roaming over heated skin. His fingers cup my neck, glide up through my wet curls. I run my palms down his arms, snake them around to his lower back. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring—fuelled by unprecedented lust—I slide them down, down and roughly squeeze his arse, pulling him abruptly toward me. When our erections brush, a fog of arousal consumes me in a way that I wouldn’t have guessed possible. John moans, whispers a string of profanities under his breath. I’m not sure where to go from here. I want to touch him, I think. Are we going to do this, then? I suppose that’s up to me. My heart is racing, bursting, boiling over with emotion and unfamiliar desire. Emboldened by the memory of his words from last week _ (you don’t have to hesitate, with me) _ I take a slight step back, reach down and wrap my fingers around his shaft. He gasps at the contact, looks up at me with wide eyes as I begin to firmly stroke.

“Oh my _ God,” _ John breathes, hands coming up to grab at my shoulders for stability. His head drops down, watching my hand on him, pulling him swiftly to a state of bliss. He leans forward, panting heavily against my chest—I can feel that he’s already close to orgasm as my fingers glide rapidly up and down. Seeing him like this is setting my gut on fire, cock throbbing and skin buzzing—something new and exciting blossoming behind my ribcage. When he ejaculates, it’s with a strangled shout, erupting over my fingers and collapsing against my chest. I wrap my arms around his body, kiss the top of his head.

After a long moment, he pulls back, looks up at me. “Can I?” He asks. Oh, God. I nod slowly, feeling suddenly hesitant at the thought of another human being’s hands on me like this. But it’s John, and I trust him. I want this for us—I really do. He grabs a bottle of shampoo off the shelf, applies some to his palm, then reaches down. His grip is light, eyes on my face—watching for signs of protest. Always such concern for my wellbeing. I’d been holding my breath and when he begins a slow, languid stroke, I let it all out in a dramatic sigh. I feel completely raw, exposed to his touch—like each of my nerves has been flicked on, lit up. Heart thundering in my chest, blood swimming with lust and an overwhelming affection, pleasure coiling dangerously within me. Sounds escape my mouth that I hadn’t known I was capable of—my arms have found their way around John’s neck, cheek pressed against his as I pant and moan into his ear. I shout when I come, voice echoing through the tiled walls that surround us. John pulls our bodies flush together, holds on to me as I come down from this new kind of high—his arms keeping me anchored while my head’s in the sky.


End file.
